


All That Remains

by roboticonography



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: The losses of the war live under Peggy’s skin.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Daniel Sousa (mentioned), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 22
Kudos: 154
Collections: Steggy Week





	All That Remains

A few weeks after Steve’s plane goes down, Peggy visits a tattoo parlour in London.

The artist, a woman, helps her choose a spot on her upper thigh. She smokes while she works, and lets Peggy do the same.

The bite of the needle feels right, somehow. It’s a pain she can’t ignore or push away, so she’s forced to feel it all the way through to the end.

She bleeds watery ink for a week, and then one day the wound is healed, and art is all that remains.

It’s the most beautiful of all the scars the war has left on her.

*

The lines sink deeper and spread, rich colours fading to more subtle tints, as her body slowly accepts the drawing into itself. Metamorphosis by degrees. It gradually becomes part of the landscape of her skin—no more unusual or significant than a mole or a freckle.

Most days, rolling up her stockings, she barely notices it.

Mr. Jarvis sees it when he’s stitching her up, after their unlikely milk truck hijacking goes awry. 

He never says a word about it. Neither does Peggy.

Not for the first time, she’s grateful for his steadfast Englishness.

*

“Hey Sousa,” says Thompson. “Settle something for me and the guys.”

Peggy can’t see them from the other side of the bank of lockers, but she can guess from the sounds that Thompson has managed to get between Daniel and the door.

“I heard Carter has a tattoo. Did you get a good look?”

“If you don’t move, I’m gonna move you.” Daniel sounds every bit as angry and embarrassed as Peggy feels.

“At least give us a hint. Is it an American flag with wings and a halo? Or just a heart with his name on it?”

Daniel, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait.

Thompson snaps his fingers. “I got it. It says, _Property of Captain America_. And it’s right on her—”

“It’s an anchor,” calls Peggy, archly. “And I had them put your name on it, Jack. Because you’re dead weight to those of us trying to get any real work done.”

The other fellows snicker. She hears the door open and close, the scrape of Daniel’s crutch on the tile receding. She lets out a long, slow breath.

It’s funny that Jack Thompson, of all people, should shear so close to the truth of it.

*

She still thinks about Steve almost daily, but it takes more and more effort to conjure him in precise detail. Did he part his hair on the right or on the left? Was his voice gruff or smooth? Did she only imagine that he had a Brooklyn accent? What shade of blue were his eyes? She isn’t quite sure anymore.

The rock of his memory, too often touched by the unceasing tide of recollection, is slowly eroding.

It’s a relief to know that the ink under her skin won’t fade quite as fast.

*

Daniel doesn’t notice it—or if he does, he doesn’t bring it up—until an evening of especially creative lovemaking gives him cause for a closer look.

“Hey there, sailor,” he murmurs. “You never told me you had a tattoo.”

“Do I?” She feigns surprise, a hand clapped to her heart. “Good heavens.”

“Either that, or one hell of a birthmark.” He gazes up at her like she’s a code he badly wants to crack.

She holds her breath, waiting for the inevitable question. She won’t lie, even to save his feelings.

But he just grins. “Kinda sexy.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

He leans down to kiss the spot, but she stops him, one hand on the crown of his head. When he glances up, she gives him a sultry smile, and crooks a finger. “Come up here.”

*

Eventually, inevitably, Howard sees it. 

She’s far too fond of swimming; while staying at his house in Los Angeles, she likes to make use of the pool. Her bathing suit isn’t quite long enough to cover it.

“That must have hurt like hell when they were putting it on.”

She shrugs, and grabs a sun-warmed towel to wring out her hair.

“You wouldn’t think an identifying mark was a good idea for a spy,” he observes, philosophically.

“That’s very true.” She dries her arms and legs briskly. “Now that you’ve seen it, I suppose I’ll have to kill you.”

Unruffled, Howard takes a sip of his martini. “I’ll never understand why you’d want to go and damage a thigh as good as yours. It’s a crime against nature.”

“Feel free not to look, if it bothers you.”

“Doesn’t bother me _that_ much, pal,” he assures her, and raises his sunglasses to give her a wink.

She drapes her wet towel over his head as she walks past.

*

Peggy dislikes Los Angeles: the unceasing brightness, the shimmering heat, the venomous insects lurking behind every smooth, shining surface. The entire town seems like one giant film set, surreal and artificial.

Still, as holidays go, it’s perfect. 

Mr. Jarvis makes her an elegant breakfast every morning, and always gets her tea exactly right. Not once does she have to risk her manicure doing the washing-up. Her laundry and her mending are likewise taken care of by the admirable Mrs. Jarvis, who does a far better job on the latter than Peggy has ever had patience for.

Howard takes her dancing at a nightclub called the Rhythm Room. She’s a bit out of practice, but Howard ensures that her champagne glass is never empty and her seat is never full; it turns out to be just what she needs.

Daniel takes time off work—the first real vacation either of them have had since the war. He takes her to see all the famous Hollywood landmarks. They go to the beach in the middle of the day, and stroll the boardwalk like true holiday-makers. (Even the ocean isn’t quite real, somehow; it’s too warm, too clear.)

But she misses home—and it surprises her, to realize that she thinks of New York, its grit and crowd-crush, its blaring sirens and broken cobblestones, as _home_.

Daniel loves Los Angeles. And that, as they say, is that.

Peggy goes home, where she wakes every morning to an empty bed, and no breakfast. And that’s fine. 

She stops telling herself she needs to leave her grief behind in order to be complete. She _is_ complete. The losses of the war live under her skin, as much a part of her now as anything that came before.

And that’s fine, too.

*

The night Steve comes back, and for three days afterwards, it snows. The entire world seems muffled, swaddled in a glittering blanket of white.

It’s an older flat, and the heat isn’t always reliable. Wrapped in blankets on her tiny sofa, they drink endless cups of scalding hot tea, and he tells her the impossible tale of how he landed on her doorstep.

He does have a Brooklyn accent, but only on certain words, and his voice is achingly familiar: deep and mellow, with just a hint of gravel. One of the few things the serum didn’t change, she remembers.

His hair isn’t parted at all anymore, just combed back, but he still runs his hand through it when he’s nervous. 

His eyes are the colour of the ocean—not a hot Pacific blue, but the stormy iron sea she knows and loves.

It’s been a long time, and he’s been through a lot. But beneath it all, he’s just as good, as kind, as funny as she remembers him. 

By the time they’ve run out of things to say to one another, she’s migrated to his side of the sofa: his arm draped across her shoulders, her head resting on his chest. Grey, watery light filters through the heavy curtains.

“It’s morning,” she observes.

“Sorry.” 

“Are you?”

“Not really.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “I always wanted to spend the night with you.”

Surprisingly, he kisses her first.

Unsurprisingly, she takes him to bed.

*

Her bedroom is bright, but freezing—she can’t quite suppress a shudder as Steve lays her down in sheets stiff with cold.

With no preamble, he strips down and covers her body with his own, smoother than silk and warmer than any electric blanket.

His time in the future has apparently been _very_ educational.

The kissing alone is brilliant, transcendent, but he doesn’t stop there. He undresses her slowly, paying careful attention to every inch of skin he reveals. It’s a novelty: she’s never had a man worship her kneecaps as thoroughly as he did her breasts.

Once he’s explored her, head to foot, he starts back in the other direction, making his way upwards with definite intent. She pulls at the blankets, still shivering, but not from the cold.

“This is beautiful work,” he remarks. 

It’s a testament to her state of mind that she replies, “God, yes,” before she realizes he’s talking about the tattoo.

His fingertips trace each line with an artist’s reverence for the craft. The compass is outlined in heavy, dark strokes, softened by shading at the edges, its needle pointing north. The rose, by contrast, is delicately etched, its bright red petals the one touch of colour in the piece.

“This style gets really popular in the future.” He kisses the spot; she wonders if he can feel the ink’s raised edges. “American traditional, they call it.”

“The artist was English, I’ll have you know.”

He smiles, not fooled by her feigned outrage. “Was that before we met?”

“After.”

He’s quiet.

Her cheeks are burning. It’s a strange, possessive thing she’s done. She wouldn’t blame him for being uncomfortable. “I thought you were gone,” she whispers.

“Peggy.”

“I would never have presumed…”

“I’m honoured,” he declares, utterly sincere. “I’d get one for you, if it would last.”

“What would you have?”

He rests his chin on her thigh while he thinks it over, a day’s growth of beard prickling her skin. 

“Same as yours,” he says at last. “Except the compass would have your picture inside.”

“A tattoo of my face?” She ruffles his hair. “That’s rather risky, don’t you think?” 

“Risky?”

“What if you changed your mind?”

The look in his eyes steals her breath. “I won’t.”

And then he puts his head down and dedicates himself to the task, and soon has her feeling a different sort of breathless entirely.

*

She wakes to an empty bed, as usual. 

For a moment, she wonders whether she’s dreamed him—it wouldn’t be the first time. Or, failing that, whether he _has_ changed his mind, after all.

And then she hears a clatter in the kitchen, and a muffled curse.

“Steve?” she calls, sitting up.

He skids into view, barefoot, wearing only a pair of jockey shorts, her percolator clutched in one large hand. “Been a while since I used one of these,” he confesses, charmingly contrite.

She’s never seen black underwear on a man. (He would have been wearing them earlier, of course, but she could hardly be blamed for not noticing.) Now that she’s able to give the matter her full attention, her impression is favourable: it had honestly never occurred to her that men’s underthings could be designed for sex appeal.

Then again, she’s fairly certain a paper bag would have sex appeal if Steve Rogers modeled it.

Catching her mood, he grins, and lounges saucily against the door frame. “See anything you like?”

“I’d like it better if it came with a cup of coffee,” she retorts.

He stands to attention—and what a treat _that_ is to watch, all those beautiful muscles in perfect formation. “Yes, ma’am.”

He brings her breakfast in bed: coffee (not milky enough and too sweet) and toast (slightly blackened at the edges, overflowing with marmalade). He also brings orange-flavoured kisses, and crumbs in her pristine sheets. And, as if to prove he's just a man like any other, he seems to have forgotten the existence of napkins entirely. 

When she complains, he cheekily offers to lick her sticky fingers clean; from there, the discussion takes an unexpected (though not unwelcome) turn, and it will be some days before Peggy can look at a jar of Golden Shred without blushing furiously.

Her neat little flat—indeed, her daily existence—has been precisely arranged, down to the last detail. One of the cornerstones of that arrangement is that it accommodates only one person. She can already tell that Steve’s presence is going to upend it completely.

It won’t be perfect, at all. 

And that’s what’s perfect about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Jessie Knight is the tattoo artist I imagine Peggy went to. She was basically the Peggy Carter of tattooing; Steve can be forgiven for not recognizing her style, which was definitely unique, even for the period. You can read more about her here: https://www.stylist.co.uk/beauty/jessie-knight-tattoo-designs-exhibition-biography-britain-first-professional-female-tattooist/243260
> 
> The Rhythm Room was a real club in LA. That’s all I know about it. Just needed the name.
> 
> Robertson’s Golden Shred is a brand of marmalade, which should be obvious from context, but just in case it’s not, there ya go.


End file.
